Kirsty Gunn

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NEW ZEALAND. Native forest near Whakahoro. 2008.

At the end of the street where I lived in Wellington, at the southern end of the North Island of New Zealand, a street of gracious two-story houses set in large gardens that were planted with oak and ash and maple, with English herbaceous borders and flowering fruit trees and shrubberies, was a park.

“A park?” you say.

A park, yes. But not a park as you know a park to be, not what you would call a park. It was the place where we went to play, at the end of our street.

This park was set with games areas for children as is the case with most parks, with railings around the green, and a swimming pool at the entrance.…  Seguir leyendo »